


Give It a Name

by The_Asset6



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Shameless-Typical Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24897562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: Leaving town? Bullshit. Ian wasn’t going anywhere, and Mickey was going to prove it.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mandy Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	Give It a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! We’re continuing our journey through Mickey’s headspace, though I would really like to do something with Ian in the near future. As this happens much earlier in the series than “That Milkovich Reputation,” please be advised that there is more internalized homophobia, unreliable narration, and homophobic language this time around. That said, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Title from “Give Her a Name” by Trevor Menear. Instrumental version used in season 3, episode 12.

The world wasn’t ending, but it might as well have been. The movies had it all fucking wrong. It didn’t start with explosions or floods or the hand of God or shit like that. Nope. In so many ways, that would have been a hell of a lot easier. Running and screaming—that was instinct. You didn’t have to think about it. You just _did_ it, and nobody considered you a pussy because everybody else was doing it too. How could they not when things were literally falling apart around them?

But life wasn’t easy and it sure as shit wasn’t fair, so the apocalypse didn’t feature any of that crap. Instead, it began with, “leaving town,” and ended with, “don’t.”

_“Don’t what?”_

Mickey pressed his palms to his eyes, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of tears. What the fuck did Gallagher want him to do? Get down on one knee and beg his ass to stay? Like hell. Nobody was worth that humiliation— _nobody_. Maybe Gallagher’s family didn’t have anything to worry about with fucking Frank lowering the neighborhood’s expectations by the second, but the Milkoviches weren’t like that. Mickey had an image to uphold, and it didn’t involve him bowing down and kissing Gallagher’s rear end like a dog just because he was pissed off that Mickey had gotten married.

And when the fuck did he start acting like such a goddamn _girl_ , anyway? Getting his nose out of joint about that shit with Angie was understandable: given how many times he’d ended up with Mickey’s dick in his mouth, it made sense that Gallagher wanted to know where else he was sticking it. He could even rationalize how he’d frozen when Mickey had gotten shot even though he’d spent the last couple of years training to be in the military, for fuck’s sake. They hadn’t been on some battlefield, although the South Side probably qualified in certain circles, and at least he’d had it coming with Towelhead. Contrary to Mickey’s upbringing, Gallagher wasn’t exactly accustomed to watching people take a bullet on the regular. Yet.

The rest, though? It wasn’t like him to start crying over shit they already knew they weren’t going to have regardless of how much they—how much _he_ wanted it. This wasn’t some rom-com. It was the real world.

And even if it were some stupid movie, Mickey wasn’t gay. Liking what he liked didn’t make him a queer, and it _definitely_ didn’t make him Ian Gallagher’s bitch.

Blinking against the too-bright light filtering in through his filthy bedroom window, Mickey attempted to clear the moisture from his eyes to no avail. Who the fuck was he kidding? His whole world had been turned upside down and torn inside out the moment Terry had walked in to find him bent over the couch with Gallagher giving it to him. That was all Mickey’s fault, which made it even worse. He’d gotten careless. He’d thought they were safe when he knew better than fucking anyone that nothing involving the Milkovich family was _safe_. Ever. Especially not inside their house. But what had he done? He’d acted like a fairy—a fucking flamer—keeping Gallagher from leaving for work on time and looking for anything other than a warm mouth and a quick release. To top it all off, he hadn’t even been smart enough to keep it to the bedroom where they’d at least have had a little goddamn warning. 

This wasn’t like when Frank had walked in on them at work. He’d had the ability to destroy Mickey’s life, but he was ultimately too fucking _Frank_ to do it. Unless it was part of his schemes and scams, it wasn’t on his radar. Gallagher had been right about that, although Mickey was too pissed off ( _not_ afraid) to believe him at the time. Shit, with how many months it had been since then, he didn’t doubt for a second that Frank had forgotten all about it what with his near constant state of intoxication. That or he was holding onto it for a rainy day if he ever needed some leverage. Knowing Frank, it was kind of a tossup.

Not with Terry. Mickey was well aware of where he stood with his own old man. What he’d witnessed that morning was never going to end in sarcasm and some light shoplifting. Hell, Mickey was lucky it hadn’t ended with a bullet in Gallagher’s head and castration on his part. If he’d fought back harder, if he hadn’t so convincingly played it straight with his whore wife while staring down the barrel of his dad’s gun and Gallagher’s broken gaze alike… Who could say? Maybe it would have.

But it hadn’t. Everything had gone to a different brand of shit instead, and rather than take a fucking hint, what did Gallagher want? Mickey couldn’t pretend he didn’t know, not when he was alone and a chasm was opening in his chest where he’d tried so damn hard not to let a certain redhead worm his way in. Anybody could fucking see it if they glanced and had a lick of common sense. Another step closer to the cliff Mickey felt like his dad might just shove him over if he wasn’t careful—that was what Gallagher wanted and what he’d been gradually coaxing Mickey toward for the last two years, step by agonizingly tiny step. How else could he explain the steady progression from normal to whatever the fuck it was that they’d been doing since his last stint in juvie? What started as a one-time thing became a string of booty calls. A string of booty calls became hanging out. Hanging out became spending most of their days together at the Kash and Grab. Each was a move in the wrong direction, and each was a fucking mistake.

The biggest one, however, was when he had let Gallagher convince Mickey to kiss him.

It hadn’t been much, barely more than a peck in the heat of the moment compared with what it could have been, but Mickey was fucking _haunted_ by it. Not simply by the tingling in his lips when he remembered the sensation or how his nose couldn’t forget that the scent of Gallagher’s breath was laced with cigarettes and coffee and something distinctly _him_. It was a slippery slope, one that Mickey had lost his balance on and nearly tumbled right off the edge into oblivion, because one kiss had led to more and more until it was all Mickey wanted to do when they were together. (Well, not _all_ , but the two sort of went hand in hand.) It clouded his mind and his judgment. It made him do stupid shit when he should have been setting boundaries, building walls behind which he could hide. Then Terry would still be none the wiser.

Then he’d be at work today, and Gallagher would be locking the door so they could take a quick five-minute break that would really be more like ten or fifteen.

He hadn’t. He’d let Gallagher draw him in, and where had that left him? With a slowly healing hole in his ass cheek, a ring on his finger, and tears drying on his face like some pussy. So, Mandy hadn’t been wrong, after all.

What really fucking pissed him off was that it _still_ wasn’t enough. Gallagher had taken that tire iron to his willpower and destroyed his life in the process, yet he wanted _more_. Selfish douchebag. Who the fuck did he think he was, coming in here demanding shit? Trying to make Mickey feel guilty? Telling him without words that he needed to give this…this…this _thing_ between them a fucking name? It didn’t need one. There _wasn’t_ anything, not in the way he wanted, and Mickey had thought he’d made that clear long before now. He’d thought Gallagher was more mature than throwing a fit and running off to join the army when he was only sixteen years old.

The shithead really believed that telling him was going to make a difference? Fat fucking chance. Mickey wasn’t about to play those dumb games. They were for girls and homos, and Mickey was neither. Let Gallagher think he’d won this round. Let him assume that Mickey was going to show up to sweep him off his feet and convince him not to leave. What the fuck ever. Mickey was going to be a goddamn adult about this since Gallagher didn’t appear to be capable of growing the hell up. He’d wait right here and let him come slinking back like a stray cat tomorrow night, just as Mickey had invited him to. Because this was bullshit. It was all an act. Gallagher wasn’t leaving. Even if he were, Mickey wouldn’t play this little game of his and go to stop him. But he _wasn’t_.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He’d almost convinced himself of that when a sudden shifting of the light outside caught his attention. Mickey stood reluctantly and trudged to the window, pulling the sheers aside to squint out at the sidewalk. In his…call it _preoccupation_ , he’d completely forgotten that Mandy had said something about nitrous and that Gallagher hadn’t left yet. His gaze immediately locked onto him where he was walking backward away from the house. Gallagher’s mouth was moving—those red, slightly chapped lips that Mickey thought about way more than he should—and his breath was condensing in front of him as he called towards the front porch. He didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh at whatever Mandy shouted in response that Mickey could just barely make out through the door. Gallagher merely nodded his head, waved halfheartedly, then disappeared down the street.

Not forever. Just until tomorrow night. Gallagher would be back.

So, why was Mickey sick to his stomach?

It twisted and churned for the rest of the afternoon into the evening. It rioted against the shitty, overcooked, mushy pasta Mandy threw in front of them at the table while they filed serial numbers off their newest inventory. It joined him in flipping his goddamn wife the bird when she told him to come to bed well past midnight. Which officially made it tomorrow. Which meant less than twenty-four hours until Gallagher was here. Maybe. Or maybe not. Mickey didn’t know. Mickey didn’t fucking care.

Svetlana sat with him for a bit, watching him vent his frustrations on a Glock that had seen better days about a decade ago, but even a hand whore could only be patient for so long. Eventually, she got the fucking picture and retreated to his bedroom— _their_ bedroom. And didn’t that give him absolutely no fucking incentive to join her. Being alone was far more preferable.

Well, until he caught Mandy waiting in her own doorway for exactly that. Then it didn’t sound too bad considering what he already saw coming.

Mickey fucking hated his wife with a passion, more on principle than anything else. He didn’t even know the bitch but was saddled with her for the rest of his life thanks to Terry. She’d be popping out a baby that was _allegedly_ his (he had his doubts) and already walked around the place like she belonged here. The hours between when she got off from work at that creepy Russian rub and tug and when she had to go back weren’t fucking short enough. At least when she was gone, Mickey could ignore the cold band of metal on his finger and pretend that everything was the way it used to be. Her face was a constant reminder that it wasn’t—that nothing would ever be the same as it had been a few weeks that felt like years ago—and he found himself shorter on patience than he was by nature any time he caught a glimpse of her in the vicinity. Even so, he’d take staring at his bedroom wall while she slept beside him over that angry, feral cat glare Mandy was shooting him. Was he going to get any fucking peace today? Yesterday? Whenever the hell it was?

Apparently not.

Mickey wouldn’t say he had a _close_ relationship with his sister. They tolerated each other; they managed to get shit done without committing homicide. On the odd occasion when they were both bored and in the same room, they’d play a video game or watch a movie, but it wasn’t the norm. Mandy was still in school because she hadn’t quite reached dropout levels of fucking up yet, and Mickey worked, whether it was for his dad or at Towelhead’s store. That wasn’t even counting the fact that when one of them wasn’t with Gallagher, the other typically was. They were closer than most of his siblings and cousins, but that wasn’t exactly saying much, all things considered. Not ratting somebody out to the cops and the occasional visit in juvie didn’t make you _close_ , at least not by most definitions. 

Regardless of where they stood with one another, Mickey could read Mandy real well. She wasn’t subtle unless it had to do with Terry, and she sure as hell didn’t mince words. Mickey had a lot of respect for her there. When push came to shove, she was one fierce bitch to have on your side.

That thought made him want to run for fucking cover when he belatedly realized she wasn’t approaching him as his sister right now. If she were, there might have been a bit of sympathy there, much as he didn’t want anything to fucking do with it. Nah, he was staring down Ian Gallagher’s best friend and, as far as the rest of the neighborhood was concerned, girlfriend.

_Aw, fuck._

Mickey immediately—and pointlessly—redirected his undivided attention to the weapon in his hand. Under different circumstances, he might have been tempted to roll his eyes at himself. Pretending he wasn’t uncomfortably aware of Mandy quietly tiptoeing over to the table to sit across from him was an exercise in fucking futility. There was no hiding from her. There was no avoiding this conversation. Anybody that might have given her a reason to think twice about opening her goddamn mouth wasn’t around. Terry had left that morning and would be gone for a week on a run with his brothers, and Mandy’s new boy-toy was working nights until after New Year’s. Their cousins had gone home to their own house for a change instead of crashing on the couch like they had for the last three days. Svetlana had made it a point to not so inconspicuously slam their door shut, although it would hardly be that big a deal if she overheard them since she was perhaps the only other person who had any fucking idea what the hell was going on. She had about half the story, and not the pretty one. The one Mickey would take to his goddamn grave.

The reminder had him gripping the Glock that much tighter, sanding down the engraved letters and numbers that much harder, but it didn’t ease his nerves. It didn’t fix how fucked up literally everything was now or how much he wanted to just go to sleep and wake up to Gallagher knocking on their front door tomorrow night. _Tonight_.

Maybe.

Either Mandy could sense his discomfort or she was working on how to start whatever discussion she was bothering him to have, because they sat in silence for a while, neither of them making the first move. And he wasn’t _going_ to make the first move, not even if that meant they didn’t leave the table all fucking night and he filed until his fingers were bleeding. She wanted to talk? Fine. She could talk until she was blue in the goddamn face and see if he cared. That being the case, Mickey was determined to make her do the leg work. He wasn’t giving her shit. This wasn’t _his_ fucking problem, and he was too tired to act like it was.

“How long?” she finally asked, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Svetlana was still behind closed doors beforehand.

Yep. Too fucking tired.

“How long what?” muttered Mickey without meeting her eyes.

“A year? Two?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Mandy always had been smart, contrary to the jokes he made to her face. She didn’t buy his bullshit for a second, though where he tended to grudgingly appreciate that about her most days, it made his skin crawl now. Arms folded across her chest and her lips quirked to the side in that sneer she’d always get when he did something she would gladly kick him in the nuts over, Mandy Milkovich was every bit as intimidating as the rest of the family. Not that he’d ever tell her, but there was no denying she was one of them at moments like this.

“You know, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she continued breezily, as if she didn’t care when she absolutely fucking _did_. “Ian tells me _everything_ , but there was always this one guy he’d never really talk about. Not like Kash or Ned—I’d get every dirty detail about them.”

It was the first time she’d openly alluded to Gallagher being gay in front of him, which was probably why Mickey spat out, “Fucking pedo faggots,” before he could think better of it.

The words left a sour taste in his mouth, and not simply because they were true. They definitely _were_ , of course. He wanted nothing more than to chop off their dicks and shove them down their throats for it, too. Grown fucking men prowling around a goddamn sixteen-year-old piece of ass— _younger_ , since he had no idea when that bullshit with the camel jockey had begun. Buying him expensive shit. Taking him places. Kissing him. _Publicly_. It was gross. The two of them should have been locked up for it by now, but Gallagher was too damn stupid to figure out that that shit wasn’t normal and sure as hell wasn’t _flattering_ like he seemed to believe. Kid fuckers were the lowest form of trash. It didn’t matter if you were on death row or sitting pretty on the North Side: everybody could agree that pedos occupied a very special place in Hell and deserved a very special kind of send-off on their way down there. It irked Mickey to no end that Towelhead and Doctor Grandpa got to go about their business as if it was no big deal when his own world was crashing down around his ears. It sucked to be their wives, that was for sure, even the batty old bitch that had shot him in the ass. They’d gotten off scot-free, though, and Gallagher saw nothing wrong with it.

While Mickey hated that shit with every fiber of his being—those saggy, wrinkling gas bags hounding Gallagher like that with no consequences besides an all too brief ass-kicking each—it wasn’t even the biggest bone he had to pick with them. Not by a long shot.

An immeasurable moment passed where all Mickey could do was bite his tongue to keep from mentioning any of that out loud. Except for a few barbs he’d tossed in Gallagher’s general direction every now and again, he hadn’t gone into that shit with anybody, and he wasn’t about to start. It wasn’t Mandy’s fucking business, even though she seemed determined to make it that way. A fleeting glance at her told him that much. He’d expected her to look triumphant or some shit, as if she’d trapped him in the lies that seemed to surround him and Gallagher like a fucking noose. Part of him sort of _hoped_ she would so he at least knew where this goddamn conversation was headed.

It could never be that simple, though, and he grew more uneasy by the second at how calm she was even after essentially catching him with his fucking pants down. (Who hadn’t at this point?) A serenely pissed off Mandy was a dangerous Mandy, and Mickey silently registered the fact that he’d just signed his fucking death warrant by getting pissy about the daddy duo. Not at her hands, but at her _words_.

Because he _hated_ words, and she understood that better than most people, who usually erred on the side of believing that he was too dumb to have learned very many. Words—or his avoidance of them whenever and wherever possible—were what made everything worse when he’d thought he couldn’t possibly dig himself a deeper hole.

Mandy chose hers carefully, clearly savoring the impact she knew they would have when she drawled, “All he’d tell me was that he was sleeping with someone and that he was _on the down-low_ or _not out_. I think the most he ever said was that he liked the guy but thought _he_ might hate him? Should’ve been a dead giveaway.”

_Seriously? Fuck you, Gallagher._

It was a nice try, but it wouldn’t work. Mickey wasn’t some brainless fucking girl: he was smart enough not to rise to the bait _or_ correct her. That wasn’t his cue to get all ticked off, whether because Gallagher was talking about him to his goddamn sister or had his shit wrong or right or whatever. He’d been through this song and dance before: it was his cue to exercise his right to remain fucking silent.

She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know anyway, so if she was attempting to play the guilt card? Tough luck for her ass. The word _boyfriend_ had come up around Gallagher a few times in the past, so it wasn’t like Mickey had no idea what it was that he’d been hoping for. That he _liked_ Mickey for whatever goddamn reason. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have put up with some of the shit Mickey had said to and about him over the last couple years when the chips were down and he needed to reestablish their mutual agreement over what exactly they were to one another—fuck buddies, nothing more. There was no shortage of ancient, wealthy shirt-lifters out there waiting to spoil him rotten if he ever got sick of the way Mickey treated his ass. Only some level of affection would have kept Gallagher coming back for more when he really should have started running in the other direction if he knew what was fucking good for him.

Like he was doing now.

_Shit._

“Really, Mick?”

Shaking off the mental image of Gallagher going down on some soldier twice his age, Mickey raised his eyes from the gun he’d forgotten he was still holding to see Mandy staring at him with the same expression she’d worn earlier in his bedroom. Disbelief. Disgust. Shame. In _him_.

Well, she could join the fucking club, because he’d been living there longer than he could remember.

That unperturbed act of hers evaporated when he merely shrugged a shoulder indifferently, and she scoffed, “You’re just gonna sit there? Not say anything?”

“The fuck you want me to say?” he mumbled under his breath. It didn’t confirm a damn thing, right?

It may as well have if Mandy’s white-knuckled grip on the table was anything to go by. They didn’t typically fight each other unless it was all in good fun, but Mickey suddenly had a feeling she wanted nothing more than to strangle him. For his part, he wasn’t sure that he’d mind if she did.

“Something. Say _anything_ ,” she implored him, leaning over the table and forcing him to look her in the fucking eye. Mickey didn’t like what he found there—it was too raw, too goddamn familiar—yet his gaze stayed glued to hers nevertheless. Fuck, this wasn’t her business. This wasn’t her problem. Why did she have to look so _broken_? So _desperate_?

So much like _him_?

_“Just admit it. J-Just this once, fucking admit it!”_

But he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. Not to Gallagher, and not to Mandy. There was nothing to say.

“I’m a little fucking busy here,” he deflected instead, raising the Glock and jiggling it sarcastically. “Go whine to someone who gives a shit.”

One second. Two.

Then Mandy’s fists came flying at his face so fast he didn’t have a chance to do more than rear back in surprise. They didn’t do near as much damage as she was probably hoping with a table between them, but it wasn’t pleasant either.

“What the hell was that for?!” Mickey shouted, dropping the gun and holding his arms up to block her if she came at him again. It wasn’t really necessary, though. Mandy simply glared at him, hands still curled into balls at her sides and her breathing uneven as she shook her head in utter revulsion.

“For making him fall in love with you and then breaking his heart, you asshole,” she growled in response.

It was overdramatic. It was fucking girl shit.

It reached into Mickey’s chest and squeezed until he wished it would just rip all his organs out and get it over with already.

Mandy didn’t wait to watch the monster she’d unleashed do its level best to fuck him up, whirling on her heel and stomping towards her bedroom where she should’ve fucking stayed if she couldn’t handle this conversation in the first place. She was to blame for that, not him. Mickey had just been doing his job, getting shit ready for when their dad got home and expected the cargo to be prepared for delivery. _She_ was the one who’d gotten all emotional and shit on him. This was her problem. Hers. Not his.

 _Not_ his.

“He really leaving?”

Someone else might have said it or Mickey could have imagined it, he was so certain that those words didn’t come from his mouth. Only they must have. Otherwise, Mandy wouldn’t have pivoted in her doorway to stare at him with all the cold contempt she could muster.

“What do you care?”

And the door slammed, leaving Mickey alone to whisper into the emptiness, “Fuck.”

He didn’t know how long he sat there afterwards, hands pressed to the table and examining the wall separating him from Mandy as if it might either give him an answer or swallow him whole. At this point, he really didn’t fucking care which. At least then he wouldn’t have to _think_.

Because what would thinking do? He’d done a lot of thinking, and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere except predictably fucked for life with Gallagher almost coming along for the ride.

Not anymore, though. He was leaving. He was getting out of the eternal shitshow that amounted to life around a Milkovich. Mandy hadn’t come right out and said it or anything, but it didn’t take goddamn Lip Gallagher levels of genius to read the fucking room. She wouldn’t have gotten so worked up about all this shit unless Gallagher had meant what he’d said. If Mickey didn’t know any better, he would have thought she really _was_ his girlfriend, her head was stuffed so far up Gallagher’s ass. When he hadn’t panned out, she’d gone for his prick of an older brother. Losing him had been her own damn fault (although she’d had a good fucking reason for it, he could have told Mandy that running over Lip’s side piece was a bad idea), but Gallagher? That was…

That was on Mickey.

She couldn’t have him because Gallagher was gay. Mickey couldn’t because he… _he_ was.

He _was_.

And it didn’t matter. It _couldn’t_ matter, because if he thought shit was bad with Terry before, that was _nothing_ compared to what he could expect in the event that he ever lost his goddamn mind enough to admit _out loud_ that…that he was…

He wouldn’t. Nobody was going to find out. Okay, nobody _else_ was going to find out. That was the whole reason Gallagher was skipping town and had stopped by the house to give Mickey some veiled ultimatum, wasn’t it? To force it out of him? The bastard might not have been trying to get him to shout it from the fucking rooftop or have it printed in the papers, but what he _did_ want would be just as big a fucking deal and just as bright a red flag to Terry and the rest of his family.

The joke was on him, however. If Mickey wanted to disappear, it was whatever. Milkoviches were used to people vanishing without a trace when shit went sideways and then resurfacing as soon as the heat died down. They’d simply assume he was on the run from somebody and wait it out; no one would worry about it if he never came back. Gallagher? Shit, his family actually gave a damn about each other. They’d notice if he were gone. They’d _care_ if he were gone.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. His family would never let him leave.

It wasn’t the most comforting notion, but it was the best Mickey could come up with as he tossed the abandoned Glock into a pile with all the rest, wearily scrubbed his hands over his face, and stopped putting off the inevitable. For now, he’d have to sleep with his wife—and he fucking _meant_ sleep, because he wouldn’t touch her even if she paid him rather than the other way around. In a few hours, though, there would be a knock on the door. There _would_.

Mickey attempted to hold onto that fragile glimmer of hope as he walked to his room, a funeral march if ever there was one, and grimaced down at where Svetlana was asleep—or faking it really well—on the far side of the bed. Not _her_ side. Just the far side. The bed had lived here longer than she had, for one thing. For another…

_Stop._

It had become the new normal for him to studiously ignore the shit she had strewn across the room, frilly and pastel-colored and soft and stupid and reeking of heavy perfume. It fucking sucked, having anything of her in his space, but what the hell was he supposed to do about it? There was only so much he could control about this situation. Actually, there was almost nothing he could control about the goddamn situation. That was how they’d gotten here in the first place. There _were_ a couple of boundaries, a few non-negotiables that Mickey wouldn’t fucking budge on even if someone held a gun to his head. He could count them on one hand.

No touching.

No fucking.

No talking unless he was in the goddamn mood.

And none of her garbage from work was allowed in his room. Period. She could keep it at the rub and tug or another girl’s place or in a fucking dumpster for all he cared. The less she brought here, the better, and none of it was going to be stained with some guy’s…stuff.

Fuck. The mere thought of it was enough to turn his stomach. That or a familiar voice on repeat in his mind, distantly demanding, “You’re gonna marry someone who screws guys for a living?”

 _Shut up, Gallagher_ , Mickey inwardly groaned. That wasn’t the memory he wanted in his head when he was stripping down to a tank and boxers with the wife who’d helped ruin his life in the room.

Anyway, his vague threats had worked thus far and prevented him from having to cross that bridge yet. Like her or not, Svetlana wasn’t an idiot. This was a good gig, and keeping it meant not overstepping her fucking bounds. It wouldn’t exactly be in her best interests to piss off Terry when doing what she was told resulted in the same thing it did for Mickey: a roof over her head, three meals a day, and a place to sleep. Happiness wasn’t part of the deal, but Milkoviches and illegal Russian hookers weren’t picky about that shit. Survival—that was their kink. So, he wasn’t concerned about Svetlana making waves for a good long while. It would happen eventually, of course. Mickey wasn’t laboring under any delusions that he was the one that genuinely intimidated her, but for now, she hadn’t figured out just how far up his dad’s ass she needed to be before she could start pissing Mickey off. When she did, things were going to get a whole lot more fucking interesting.

In the meantime, Svetlana put forth way more effort into their relationship (or lack thereof) than Mickey did. And that was fucking fine by him. The arrangement worked in the short-term: she did her goddamn job, and he avoided her like the plague, which was pretty easy during the day when he was always busy with something.

At night, however, he had no choice but to crawl under the covers with her as if he wasn’t completely repulsed to be there. Simple enough, right? She wasn’t ugly. For a whore, she watched her hygiene. She didn’t smell or snore or any of that shit. Sleeping in the same bed as someone could have been a hell of a lot worse.

But it was _only_ sleeping. That was it.

Not that it was going to happen for Mickey tonight. How could it when there were too many motherfucking words in his head, some of them eating at his conscience while others needlessly reminded him that that was not _her_ fucking side of the goddamn bed?

It was _his_. Just for the one night, but it was still _his_.

That subtle burning in his lips returned with a vengeance, and Mickey glared up at the ceiling like it was to blame. And shit, maybe it was. The damn thing had watched them that night, had witnessed everything that Mickey would never admit to having done. Some shit didn’t get to see the light of day and instead stayed locked up tight, hidden from the rest of the world and even from Gallagher.

There had been a few points over the last couple of months where Mickey was positive that he had unintentionally shared yet another secret with that redheaded son of a bitch. It would certainly explain some of the shit he’d said, although it wasn’t like he really needed a reason to pull those sorts of stunts. Gallagher was a sap like that, softer than anybody Mickey had ever met despite the size of his muscles these days. But if he were actually aware of what had happened, aware of what Mickey had _done_ right here where he lay? Well, Mickey sincerely doubted he would have been able to keep his mouth shut about it. The stakes would have been too fucking high for him not to go blurting it out, especially since Gallagher tended to do that for the hell of it half the time anyway.

Honestly, Mickey wasn’t sure what would have been better: Gallagher knowing or wallowing in it alone like he was now. At least he could shut Gallagher up with a fist or a kiss or whatever. The guy was easily satisfied. When it was just Mickey, however? He wasn’t a religious nut, nor was he superstitious. But there were ghosts in here—ghosts of everything that was and everything that wasn’t. They wouldn’t let him forget. No matter how hard he tried, that night would be ingrained in his memory forever.

They’d finished the movie. They’d eaten all the pizza rolls. They’d downed the rest of their beers. Then they’d…sat there. Sometimes, they’d glanced at each other; sometimes, they’d looked around the room as if they’d never fucking seen it before. They hadn’t been so awkward together since all of…whatever it was had started two years prior. That was back when he’d stop into the Kash and Grab for a quick bang with as few words exchanged as possible. He hadn’t really known what to make of it that they were right where they’d fucking started again after all the time they’d spent together. Or maybe it didn’t mean a damn thing and he’d been reading too much into shit. Yeah, that was more likely.

It couldn’t have been anywhere near as long as it felt like—which was an eternity—when Mickey finally reached the end of his goddamn rope. Beating around the bush like a couple of twinks circling one another at a bar? Jesus Christ, how pathetic. There hadn’t been any reason why they weren’t already on each other when there had been nothing left to distract them. At work, they’d played it safe. In public, they’d played it safe. Around Mandy and Terry and Gallagher’s brothers, they’d played it safe. But the house had been empty. The invite had been issued and accepted. Mickey hadn’t minded letting himself breathe. A _bit_.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get over here, you pussy,” was all the motivation Gallagher had needed to stop acting like this was his first time in Mickey’s goddamn living room and start fucking doing something.

For a while, it was making out on the couch. What a fucking experience that had been. It was casual and lazy and charged yet relaxed, and while Mickey would never acknowledge it, he wouldn’t have minded a little more of that. He _wouldn’t_ mind a little more of that. They’d taken their time, exploring territory neither of them had visited before and pushing a few limits that Mickey had admittedly been more responsible for enforcing. Shit, it had been good— _so_ fucking good—all soft lips and tongue. He hadn’t even wondered whether it was those old fuckers who’d taught Gallagher what he knew, too focused on the moment and the sensation and the smells and the sounds and—

Mickey closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It wasn’t safe to dwell on _that_ part or what came next anymore. Not here, at any rate, not with his fucking wife in the bed with him. That was private shit, and his own fucking bedroom sure as hell wasn’t private anymore.

So, he did what he could to gloss over the blur of motion and heat that had followed, albeit not all that successfully. What could he say? Gallagher was under his fucking skin in spite of his best efforts to keep the bastard at arm’s length. That was at the heart of his entire problem. _All_ of his problems.

Because Mickey had broken his own rules. Yeah, so he’d done that already by inviting Gallagher to the house at all. He fucking knew better: the Milkovich residence had to be the most unpredictable in the neighborhood, if not the entire state of Illinois, and there were only so many excuses he’d be able to come up with on the fly when he and Gallagher weren’t really even supposed to be friends let alone…whatever they were. That hadn’t stopped him from opening the door to the shitstorm that had fully embraced them in the aftermath of the best night of their lives, though. Any time he’d come close to thinking better of it, he’d visualized the look on Gallagher’s face when that DCFS bitch had announced herself or how fucking _sad_ his eyes had gotten when he’d told Mickey where he and his brother had ended up afterward. Those were some powerful eyes. The fuck else could he have done besides give Gallagher the out?

Told him to suck it up and stop being such a pussy, that was what.

Except he hadn’t. He should’ve, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d torched the fucking rulebook and tossed it out the front door when he welcomed Gallagher over the threshold.

That wasn’t the worst of his transgressions, however. Nope. Mickey had done a real number on the situation, that was for sure. It was no wonder they’d gotten caught, in hindsight.

The evening didn’t end at some not so innocent shenanigans on the couch. The rules didn’t magically fly back through the window and whack him in the head like he deserved when Mickey had dragged Gallagher into his room and—déjà fucking vu—his bed. The walls he’d knocked down by inviting Gallagher over in the first place didn’t rebuild themselves after round two or three or four.

Thank fuck for that. Some days, the memory was all that kept him going.

Rolling his head to the side, Mickey wasn’t seeing Svetlana anymore. His brain did him a fucking favor for a change and let him watch as Gallagher collapsed beside him, out of breath and staring at the ceiling with a blissful yet still somewhat incredulous smile on his face. Shit, was he beautiful that night, or whatever version didn’t sound so fucking gay. They’d left the lamp on, and the warm yellow light had reflected off Gallagher’s hair, making it practically glow against the shadows of Mickey’s room. Running his hands through it was out of the question—of course it fucking was. Yet that hadn’t kept his fingers from twitching idly against the sheets as he’d fought the urge anyway.

Gallagher hadn’t noticed. His eyes had slid shut a few seconds after his head hit the pillow, which was for the best since Mickey couldn’t quite refrain from staring for long enough that it probably counted as creepy. It was like a dam had burst or some shit, messing with his head and bringing a whole bunch of crap to the fore that he’d successfully tamped down to that point. Everything about Gallagher had driven him fucking insane in the greatest and most terrifying ways. The subtle curls that straightened out when his hair grew longer. The freckles that changed with the seasons. The lithe figure that seemed to stretch even further during each of Mickey’s trips to juvie. Long, slender fingers that made cheese sandwiches for their boss or flexed against the concrete with every push-up or loosely tilted a beer bottle towards his mouth but were careful never to touch Mickey unless he made it clear that he wanted them to. His voice. His mind. The aspirations that Mickey fucking hated. Everything. The guy was… He was just…

Fuck. There weren’t any words to describe him, not then and not now. He was just… _Ian_.

Eventually, Mickey had somehow managed to tear his gaze away and reached over to grab a cigarette out of the pack on his nightstand, effectively breaking the spell that Ian had cast on him. It wasn’t until he’d taken a couple of drags that he hazarded a glance at the other side of the bed again, and if he’d believed that nothing could strike him more deeply than the sight of a postcoital Ian in his bed, then he was proven _so_ fucking wrong in that instant. It both horrified and excited him in equal measures.

Ian’s mouth was slightly ajar, his right arm draped over his stomach above the sheets. They’d _just_ finished banging, and the bastard was already falling asleep? Usually he’d take a few minutes to be a fucking sissy first and get a few words in that Mickey _definitely_ wouldn’t tolerate any other time. It had been yet another new experience, seeing him so relaxed _here_ , in Mickey’s house.

In his goddamn _bed_.

Even more surprising was how much Mickey fucking _loved_ the sight.

“Getting sleepy over there, Fire Crotch?” he had murmured around his cigarette, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips when Ian’s face had scrunched up and he’d rolled onto his side towards Mickey.

He hadn’t opened his eyes, and his words were slurred when he’d said, “Jus’ gimme five minutes, Mick, ‘n’ then I’ll go back to the couch.”

At the time, Mickey had found it pretty fucking hard not to laugh at the idea that Ian seriously assumed that he’d have to sleep on the goddamn _couch_ that night. Then again, they _were_ in uncharted waters. The safer play _would_ have been to send his ass out there just in case anybody came home unexpectedly. That would have made it a hell of a lot easier to explain Ian’s presence than if someone caught them like _this_ , or worse, caught them like they were five minutes prior.

Since when had Mickey made things simpler for himself where Ian was concerned, though?

“Nah, man, it’s cool,” he’d countered with a dismissive wave of his cigarette. “That couch is a piece of shit.”

 _That_ certainly got Ian’s attention. His eyes were bleary as hell, and he was obviously closer to sleep than consciousness, but the expression on his face was fucking priceless. If he were a goddamn sap, Mickey would have wished that he had a picture of it. But he wasn’t a sap, so fuck that stupid crap.

“Really?” Ian had asked, his green eyes sharpening to study Mickey intently. From the looks of it, he couldn’t quite believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. That made two of them.

Nodding, Mickey had taken a deep pull from his cigarette and then snuffed it out in his ashtray like it wasn’t a big fucking deal that he’d as good as told Ian that they could sleep together in the more literal sense. Like he couldn’t feel the hot poker that was Ian’s gaze on his neck as he shifted to lie on his back. Like he hadn’t been opening the floodgates to far more than the warm mouth Ian had ceased to be so long ago that Mickey wasn’t sure where the transformation had occurred.

Like his mind wasn’t racing and his fingertips weren’t itching and his heart wasn’t skipping a beat here and there.

That was some faggot shit, and Mickey Milkovich was no queer. Or so he’d told himself to make it through the day.

“Whatever. Ain’t like I’m running all the way out there when you’re ready to go again, Gallagher.”

There it was: that misty-eyed, sappy expression that told Mickey another chink in his armor had opened an inch wider for Ian’s dumb ass to slip inside where he didn’t fucking belong. He’d gawked at Mickey just like that in the van, right after Mickey had kissed him for the first time and immediately preceding that shit-heel’s wife damn near shooting his ass off. Jesus Christ, that expression _did_ things to him, and all the years of training himself not to falter under his old man’s watchful eye had meant absolutely nothing in that moment when his own goddamn face had been doing everything it could to give him away. He was his own worst enemy where Ian was concerned, and he _hated_ it. Obviously, something had to be done so that Ian didn’t get the wrong idea, though Mickey hadn’t been able to remember for the life of him what that idea even was. Not with those eyes of his _right fucking there_. 

“Figure you’ve got a few more rounds in you before I’ve gotta send you back to the dog pound,” he’d joked to draw attention away from where his thumb was desperately trying to wipe off that stupid smile of his.

Ian’s distasteful scowl at the reminder that he was actually supposed to be sleeping in baby juvie was easily erased by a salacious grin and a wink, and he’d automatically shot back, “Think you can keep up?”

Well, he _would_ have shot back if he hadn’t had to say it around a yawn.

“Wanna try that again, tough guy?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thanks. Maybe later.”

Did he have to fucking laugh like that? All deep and sleepy and… _fuck_.

Weeks later, Mickey was still thinking about it— _dreaming_ about it. After their goddamn world had exploded so spectacularly, he figured he didn’t really have a right to, yet the sound filled his head and had him closing his eyes to savor it exactly as Ian had then. In the dim light of his bedroom with the door shut against the rest of the world barging into their business, Mickey had drunk it all in: the way Ian settled into the pillow next to his, how one of his arms was angled underneath while the other instinctively curled up by his chin, the steady and deepening rise and fall of his chest as sleep took him. He’d memorized every twitch, every shift, every slightly congested snuffle. It was his drug of choice and the highest high Mickey had ever experienced.

It was the _gayest_ shit Mickey had ever experienced. He had been utterly powerless and so fucking content to be. He had been putty in Ian’s limp fingers, ready and willing to be molded into whatever he needed. 

But just for that one night. Just while they were insulated in that goddamn bubble of deceptive safety. Once the real world reared its ugly fucking head, it was time for Mickey to turn back to stone, and not even Ian could crack him.

At least, he didn’t believe he could. Not anymore. What he didn’t know was that he’d missed out on one hell of a weapon, perhaps even the one that could shatter Mickey into a million pieces where Terry could only try.

What Ian didn’t know was what else had happened that night, well past the point where Mickey could be sure that he wouldn’t wake up and fucking ruin it.

It had started with a fleeting thought—a _craving_ that his eyes were never going to fucking satisfy. Ian was a goddamn image, for sure, yet that didn’t go very far in the grand scheme of things. Mickey had been carrying around mental images of Ian long enough. What he’d wanted—what he’d _needed_ , and fuck, since when was he such a goddamn bitch?—went beyond that. Something physical. Something connected.

Mickey had reached out before he was fully aware of it, and his hand had automatically frozen in front of him, looking for all the world like it was someone else’s. It may as well have been, because he certainly wasn’t in fucking control of it. The damn thing had a mind of its own, hovering centimeters from Ian’s face and trembling in the dull glow of his lamp.

Which was fruitier: touching him or being too big a coward to try?

That was an easy one. Milkoviches weren’t cowards.

Steeling himself, Mickey had closed the distance and let his fingertips skim lightly over Ian’s cheekbone, immediately snatching them back in case he woke up. He hadn’t. Ian hadn’t budged an inch.

 _Gonna have to sleep lighter than that if you wanna be a soldier, Gallagher_ , Mickey remembered musing as he’d boldly lowered the palm of his hand to the side of Ian’s face. Still nothing, though it sure as shit felt like a whole lot of _something_ to Mickey.

Soft skin. Ian had such fucking soft skin.

Stroking his thumb lightly over Ian’s cheek had felt so different from all the times Mickey’s fingers had accidentally brushed his when they passed cigarettes and beer back and forth or they’d playfully shoved at one another in their less cautious moments. He wasn’t a kid anymore; he wasn’t the gangly little shit that had busted into his room when he was trying to fucking sleep. Those spots were all callouses and hardened muscle now. Some of _that_ Ian Gallagher was hanging onto his face where Mickey had cupped it in his palm and literally _felt_ him breathing, though.

The answer was obvious. The danger was clear. That didn’t fucking stop Mickey from wondering why he hadn’t been doing that for _years_. At least then it might have made up for the fact that it would never happen again.

Maybe. Probably. He’d know in a few hours.

For now, Mickey couldn’t do more than picture how he had kept his movements slow so as not to rouse him. Running his fingers over Ian’s temple. Smoothing the line of his eyebrow. Tracing the shell of his ear down to the ever-sharpening outline of his jaw. Brushing a thumb over the lips that fucking _did_ things to Mickey’s head and just about everything else he had. Cupping his neck, where there were tiny red hairs starting to grow back after he’d shaved them down to nothing while Mickey was in juvie. Dipping into the hollow above his collarbone for the hell of it.

The voice in his mind that sounded like Terry had quieted. The world had stilled beyond his bed— _their_ bed—and existence had narrowed to one redhead with light orange eyelashes fanned out across the freckles on his cheeks. One tall son of a bitch with legs for days and a smile that set Mickey’s insides on fire. One guy who apparently trusted Mickey with his life since he felt comfortable enough in the Milkovich house to fall asleep and _stay_ asleep with no one but Mickey to protect his ass if he needed it.

And he would. Or he’d thought he would.

Shit had been so much simpler that night as Mickey had taken great pleasure in just observing all the things that made Ian who he was. Usually, he made do with the glimpses he could steal at work or while they were walking towards wherever they’d be banging that day. It had been fucking intoxicating to feel like he had all the time in the world for a change, like his dad wouldn’t come home at some point to tilt the earth right onto its damn axis again and slot Mickey back into place.

Like he had a different place where he maybe wanted to be. Where he maybe belonged.

That silent admission didn’t exactly keep him from damn near throwing Ian off the other side of the fucking bed when he’d suddenly rolled onto his stomach, their already close proximity meaning his head ended up on Mickey’s chest with his arm thrown across his waist. The sole reason he didn’t react instinctively had been because he was too surprised to do so. Anyway, that was what he had attempted to convince himself as he lay paralyzed, as though moving might pop that bubble and send them lurching into space.

A minute had gone by, and Ian hadn’t woken up.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Colonel Gallagher—or whatever the fuck he wanted to be—was going to get himself killed in his fucking sleep if that had been any indication. Christ, the fact that he’d almost given Mickey a damn heart attack was the only thing that had kept him from looking for a pulse. Admittedly, the guy had three brothers, two sisters, and fucking Frank stumbling around the joint at all hours of the day and night. It was no wonder he slept like the fucking dead.

Not that Mickey was _really_ complaining. When the terror that had encompassed him at practically having Ian in his goddamn lap abated, those nerves he’d shored up earlier poked at the edges of his awareness. Ian was _right there_ , right on top of him. Mickey had already gone so much further than he should have, so what did it matter if he pushed a bit more? Nobody would ever know.

It was his own dirty little secret.

So, Mickey had let his fingers walk up Ian’s spine to the back of his neck. He’d slipped them beneath those shallow carrot-top curls, pausing only a split second when their owner had sniffed in his sleep. He’d angled them slightly so his nails could scratch gently against Ian’s scalp, and _fuck_ , the reaction would have had him ready for another go if he hadn’t been so determined not to move from where they were.

Ian hadn’t woken up. Thank fuck, too, because Mickey hadn’t been able to school his expression when that arm tightened around him and Ian cuddled—fucking _cuddled—_ even closer than he would have thought possible. Shit, the guy’s head had been crammed up under Mickey’s chin. The way Ian nuzzled his chest—the way he did it without even _knowing_?

_Goddamn it, Gallagher._

Mickey immediately sat up and buried his head in his hands, but it was too fucking late. Nothing could erase the ghostly sensation of Ian’s presence all around him. He couldn’t brush aside how amazing it had felt to fall asleep with that familiar weight partially on top of him and his own hands gently caressing that goddamn arm. The next morning, Ian was already awake and making coffee in the nude by the time Mickey had come to consciousness, and he was almost ashamed of how fucking relieved he’d been when none of it came up in the admittedly limited conversation they’d had. When they could just go about their business and not have to acknowledge just how fucking cracked Mickey was—not then, not now, not ever.

There was safety in avoidance, and if Mickey hadn’t slept anywhere near as well since then? If he’d had to get a new ashtray because he’d thrown his old one through the goddamn wall when Ian’s scent faded from his sheets after a week? If his fucking wife made the bed feel colder instead of warmer? It didn’t fucking matter. He was still breathing— _Ian_ was still breathing—and that was the important thing.

Gallagher wouldn’t be breathing for long if he fucked off to the army.

He wasn’t _actually_ going to, but…

 _But_.

Throwing off the covers, getting out of bed, digging around on the floor for an even remotely clean outfit—Mickey did it all without thinking. His head was too full of Ian fucking Gallagher, and he only realized he was heading for the door when Svetlana’s voice groggily asked, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he answered without looking at her. Mickey didn’t need to see her disdain or suspicion to know it was there.

“At four in morning?”

“The fuck’s it look like?”

Ordinarily, she’d take the goddamn hint and shut her fucking mouth. That had been how they operated since the wedding: doing what they were going to do and not questioning it. They _worked_ that way, which was great given that they wouldn’t otherwise.

Needless to say, Mickey raised his eyebrows and whirled around on the threshold at her uneasy declaration that it was _too early_. That he should _stay_.

The hell did she think this was? Mickey could go out whenever he fucking wanted, whether it was to get drunk or buy heroine or bang some twink in a back alley or just take a goddamn walk. A fucking piece of paper wasn’t permission for her to give him shit over it.

“Hey, why don’t you mind your fucking business?” he snapped rather than addressing any of that crap. It was in the subtext, really.

And she caught on like a pro. Svetlana’s mouth shut quick enough to break a tooth, and even though she watched him storm out of the room with a look that could curdle milk, she didn’t try to stop him. Which was good. He had someplace to be.

Snatching his coat off the couch where he’d tossed it earlier, Mickey distantly registered that he was lucky as shit that Terry was gone for a few days. There wouldn’t be any awkward fucking questions about why he was making such a goddamn racket in the middle of the night, stomping and yelling and slamming the door on his way out. The Milkovich house stayed quiet, and he was allowed to jog down the sidewalk towards North Wallace in peace.

It was the first time he’d been to the Gallaghers’ house since he got shot, though he had to admit the circumstances were worse now than they had been then. That wasn’t to say he didn’t cringe a little every time he reflected on the whole shitshow that had been born of one favor to some rich douchebag who didn’t deserve it. He fucking _did_. As if it wasn’t bad enough that there had been a bullet in his ass and a bunch of screaming kids and a goddamn social worker, Mickey hadn’t even gotten the satisfaction of leaving on good terms. Not to be a pussy about it, but Ian hadn’t so much as looked at him after all the chaos died down. Shit, he hadn’t paid Mickey one bit of attention when his sister had sent him upstairs with the rest of his siblings to prepare the bags everyone in the house knew they were going to need. DCFS workers didn’t just see shit like that and wait to file reports. The Gallaghers had been fortunate to get one more night before the bitch came to pick them up in the morning.

That meant Mickey had to limp out the front door with Ian’s sugar daddy instead. And how fucking ironic was that? Mickey had gone on that heist because of him. He’d gotten shot because of him. He’d…kissed Ian because of him, which was at least a bright side to the rest of what constituted a pretty fucking bad day all around. What he wouldn’t have given to shove Oldielocks down the porch steps and throw in a few kicks for good measure. On the North Side, that shit didn’t fly, but in the neighborhood? On his motherfucking turf? Nobody would have batted an eye.

Except for Ian, of course. Gallagher had had an even shittier day than Mickey, and although it went against everything he stood for, Mickey didn’t have it in him to make it any worse. Now, if that homosaur came sniffing around for a goddamn _ginger snap_ ever again (yeah, he’d fucking heard that bullshit), Mickey wasn’t going to be so nice. Open season, motherfucker. For the time being, however, he had simply flipped the crusty geezer off as the latter high-tailed it out of dodge in his fancy-ass car.

Mickey perched on the edge of the curb where he’d been parked that day, making himself inconspicuous between some old junker and an overflowing trash can, and pulled out the brand new pack of cigarettes he’d bought last night. This didn’t make him a bitch. This didn’t make him fucking desperate. This definitely didn’t mean he was going to tell Gallagher not to go anywhere. He was just…watching. In the dark. Like a damn stalker.

Well. He’d done stranger things in his line of work.

All told, chain smoking on the side of the street while the sky slowly shifted from black to murky blue would have been a hell of a lot more comfortable if it weren’t colder than Frosty’s ass crack. It fucking figured that Ian would choose a day when it was supposed to snow for this shit. Talk about busting Mickey’s balls, all for something that wasn’t going to happen anyway. Every second that passed without the front door opening made him that much more certain of it.

“Nice try, Gallagher,” Mickey snickered through a cloud of his own smoke.

How had he even fallen for that act in the first place? Jesus, he was going soft. Ian had Mandy convinced, but that wasn’t fucking hard. Look at his goddamn brother: he’d been pretty good at giving Mandy the runaround too until that Jackson bitch got all full of herself. Maybe it was in the Gallagher genes or something. Frank’s scams always seemed to work out somehow, so it made sense that the whole family was naturally predisposed to being sneaky motherfuckers. Ian was probably in there waiting for Mickey to come tearing up the steps and pound on the door as if their lives were a stupid fairy tale or some shit. He probably figured this was going to change something, that Mickey would up and leave the wife he didn’t want so they could…whatever it was that he dreamed up in that dumbass red head of his.

Not fucking likely. Ian better not have held his breath that any goddamn knight in shining armor was going to keep him from pulling this idiotic stunt of his.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. Ian would chicken out and be crawling back by tonight anyway.

He repeated that to himself like a mantra. Every smoldering cigarette butt he dumped into the sewer was another point in his favor, another strike against Ian. It warmed him when the temperature sure as fuck wouldn’t.

As the sun rose behind him and his eyes were shriveling in their sockets from the dry air pressing against them, a smile stretched across his face. _Tomorrow morning_ was here, but Gallagher was nowhere to be found. He fucking _knew_ it. What a waste of his goddamn time. If it were anyone except Ian—if it didn’t send a message that had Mickey’s spine and stomach squirming pleasantly against his will—he would have been pissed shitless. That was a whole fucking night of sleep lost, and for what? So his ass could go numb on the sidewalk while he burned through the last of his smokes? Gallagher was going to be paying for a full carton the next time Mickey saw him. If he played his fucking cards right, he might even share.

It wasn’t often anymore that Mickey allowed himself to bask in _nice_ thoughts, but he let that one simmer beneath the surface as he rose to his feet and stretched with a groan. Shit, he wasn’t old or anything, but his back was killing him.

He didn’t hear the door over his grumbling until he was almost around the corner.

In the otherwise silent street, it wasn’t exactly subtle. A slight creak and two quiet thuds on a wooden porch caught his attention, and Mickey whipped around so fast that he might have put a crick in his neck if one wasn’t already radiating all the way up from his tailbone.

There was Gallagher, and not merely the one sneaking out of his house first thing in the goddamn morning. Mickey was seeing double, two dissonant images superimposed onto one another to dizzying effect. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t been able to get his head out of the fucking clouds all night. Maybe he was just losing his mind. Either way, Gallagher was dumping that huge-ass ROTC duffel on the front deck at the same time as Ian dropped his backpack beside Mickey’s couch. Gallagher cautiously pulled the door closed with one hand against the doorframe to dampen any sound; Ian blew smoke out of his nose as he switched the DVD in their player with his cigarette-free hand. Gallagher hefted his bag onto his shoulder and hopped down the stairs, and Ian leapt to his feet the instant Mickey suggested they move to his bedroom.

Coming through the gate was Gallagher.

Blindly swinging the door shut without breaking away from Mickey’s lips was Ian.

The Ian that was _his_.

Gallagher was about to become property of the goddamn United States military.

“Fuck,” breathed Mickey, leaning up against the side of the house on the corner so Gallagher wouldn’t see him. The sudden wave of despair that crashed over him at the sight was both familiar and devastating, a sensation that had snuck up on him time and time again. In his bedroom yesterday. At his wedding. When he’d laid Ian out flat in the gravel. The moment the door banged open and they were caught. Yeah, he knew this feeling. It wasn’t a good one.

But it didn’t make him move. It didn’t send him across the street even though an aching cavern in his chest was attempting to shove him in that direction. Instead, his feet remained firmly planted on the sidewalk, turning him into a statue of South Side culture whose mind rambled excuse after excuse.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. He’d go right the fuck back inside when he realized no one was showing up.

 _Come on, Ian. Don’t do this_ , Mickey internalized the words he hadn’t been able to say the day before.

Gallagher didn’t hear them this time either. He paused at the gate, staring up at his home with his back to Mickey so that he couldn’t see Ian’s face. Then he was tightening his grip on the duffel over his shoulder, turning, and walking purposefully away.

And Mickey followed like a man on a mission. Well, not quite _that_ enthusiastically. He wasn’t going to turn bitch now, just keep a watchful eye on things to make sure that Gallagher didn’t do something stupid like _actually_ run off. The guy wasn’t that dumb, right? He had a good head on his shoulders, a supportive family, a job, and decent grades. He had friends—or one friend, anyway. Mickey hadn’t asked him if there was anybody besides Mandy that he was close with, and Ian hadn’t offered to tell him either. Still, there was plenty in his neighborhood for him. No way was he going to leave all that behind.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. He’d remember how much his home meant to him.

That assumption—that insane, manic hope—buoyed him as he tailed Gallagher down the street at a distance. It was another testament to how _not_ prepared for the army Ian was that he didn’t bother to check and see if he was being followed, although Mickey supposed that that wasn’t really something that he would be used to determining anyway. Ian hadn’t sold drugs like his asshole brother or come anywhere close to the shit Mickey pulled for his family. Why would he look over his fucking shoulder? Nobody was likely to be coming for him.

Something about that stung, and it took a few blocks for Mickey to realize why: Ian really _didn’t_ expect anyone to come for him. Contrary to what Mickey had spent the last twenty-four hours attempting to assure himself, he _didn’t_ believe Mickey would be there to stop him from doing something dumb as hell. That was the only explanation. If Gallagher truly thought there was a chance that Mickey would roll up to give him shit and keep him here, then his eyes would be all over the fucking place. At the very least, he would have the sense to glance behind his back.

But he didn’t. Ian was doing this. He was really doing this.

 _He_ thinks _he’s doing this_ , scoffed Mickey with a silent scowl and shake of his head. Gallagher was smart, yeah, but he also made stupid mistakes. He did shit without thinking, like showing up at Mickey’s wedding when Terry was in the next room and probably packing heat—heat that he had already threatened Ian with before. Regardless of his lapses in judgment, though, Gallagher _always_ came to his senses. He always figured his shit out, even if it took a little time. So sure, he probably hadn’t been lying in Mickey’s room yesterday. Sure, he probably thought he _was_ joining the army today. He wasn’t, though. The gravity of this whole thing would smack him in the face, and he’d go home. Plain and simple.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. He’d turn around.

A few blocks turned into a couple miles through intersections and alleys until they were hopping the L (in different cars, because Mickey wasn’t fucking stupid even if Gallagher wasn’t watching his own back) and then descending right into the middle of downtown. For a minute, Mickey considered that he had this all wrong and Ian was just bringing his duffel along so he could leave on some ROTC retreat after work. The Kash and Grab was a couple streets up, so it wasn’t totally out of left field. Mickey had watched Ian do that in the past. It sort of stuck out in his memory given that those were the weekends he hated most. They didn’t spend every fucking second together or anything—that would be gay as hell—but it was nice to know that _if_ he happened to want Gallagher’s company, he’d be around. During his army training shit, however, not only couldn’t Mickey see him, but he couldn’t even send a fucking text. No cell phones or personal technology and all that shit.

What did he see in the goddamn military, anyway? That was a question Mickey had been asking himself for years. Nobody on the South Side joined the military unless they were really desperate to get out of the neighborhood or hadn’t started there to begin with, which was getting to be an increasingly common concern these days with whispers of gentrification coming their way in the near future. It was sort of like becoming a cop: it sounded good on paper, but when it came down to the nitty-gritty, they just weren’t built for that shit. Law enforcement wasn’t in their genes down on the South Side. Running from it? Now, _that_ was more their style. Gallagher swore by that shit, though, and Mickey would never fucking understand it. None of the reasons he came up with made any sense whatsoever either. That patriot crap was exactly that— _crap_. Dying for family was one thing. Dying for a country that didn’t think you should even exist because you were poor as shit and fucking gay as shit too? They couldn’t pay Mickey’s ass enough, not even with all the food and clothes included.

Ian in a uniform, though… He supposed there were worse mental images, not that that made a bit of difference. Gallagher always seemed to forget that a nice uniform, three meals a day, and checks he could send back to his family would never be enough to make up for the fact that he could get his ass blown up and never come home to see what that cash paid for. It was already impossible to imagine how things would be after a four-year fucking tour. Eight years? Twelve? Mickey genuinely couldn’t picture the neighborhood without Ian Gallagher in it for that long.

Mickey couldn’t picture _himself_ if Ian Gallagher didn’t come back.

 _Stop acting like a fucking pussy_ , he internally reprimanded himself, jogging across the street once he was certain that Ian had already turned the corner ahead and wouldn’t spot him. What was he thinking about that dumb shit for? Gallagher wasn’t leaving, and even if he were, Mickey would get on with his fucking life. It wasn’t that big a deal.

It certainly felt like one when he reached the intersection and peered around the side of the building with a sense of dread making him want to puke. Mickey didn’t see Ian anywhere, but he wasn’t worried that he’d lost him. Oh, no. He knew precisely where Gallagher had disappeared to.

Hope’s Liquor was a little hole in the wall that Terry frequented between incarcerations. Great place. A couple of those roach traps, and they’d be one of the nicer joints in the area. That wasn’t saying much since the competition wasn’t looking to move to Lake Shore or anything, yet it could be described as South Side chic nonetheless. The booze came cheap, and the fake IDs came cheaper with twice the quality.

Not that that was more of a problem in this instance than any other. Mickey would bet money that Gallagher had never gone to get his own fugazy card in the past, relying on his brother to either pick up what he wanted or find one for him instead.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. Nobody would give someone who didn’t know how to hustle an ID.

Trying not to dwell on what it meant that Ian had waited until the eleventh fucking hour to do this shit, Mickey leaned against the side of the store around the corner from the door and waited, which was way more difficult when he didn’t even have a cigarette to make it look less suspicious. Nobody on this side of Chicago just stood around innocently. Either you were outside looking for a smoke, or you were going about your damn business. It reeked of sneaking around to simply be _standing_ there, especially when your last name happened to be Milkovich.

Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. The downside was that he had company for it.

_The fuck is she doing here?_

Mickey had half expected one of Ian’s siblings to figure out he was gone and come looking, although it might have been optimistic to hope that they would have known to follow him here, of all places. In his mind’s eye, he could even imagine Linda stomping down the street, grabbing Gallagher by the back of his hoodie, and dragging his ass to work. He should have worked today, shouldn’t he? Shit, she was going to be pissed as fuck when he didn’t show up and she had to man the register by herself. Mickey had had the decency to up and quit so she wasn’t waiting for his ass. Given that Ian seemed to be running around at the last goddamn minute, he had a feeling that probably fell pretty low on his prioritized list of shit to get done before he left to get killed in some desert half a world away.

So, yeah, Mickey figured any number of people could have wandered up the street looking for Ian. The one person he wasn’t expecting—the one person he probably _should_ have expected from the get-go—was his own fucking sister.

Pressing himself tighter against the window and pulling up his hood, Mickey attempted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible while simultaneously watching her jog up to the door from the other side of the street without noticing him. Thank fucking God. He’d never live it down if she noticed him skulking around in Gallagher’s shadow.

He’d never live it down if she noticed him very much _not_ going in there to yank Ian the fuck out before he did something he and everybody he knew would regret.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. Mandy was here to do it for him.

Apparently, that was too much to fucking ask. When Ian hurried out the front door ten minutes later, a blur that Mickey could barely see through the posters and signs and shelves, he didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find Mandy there. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact, and Mickey inched closer to the edge of the building so he could hear their hushed voices better. It wasn’t the perfect setup, but he was able to make out snatches of conversation that turned his insides to ice.

“—n’t worry, he—ow it‘s gone,” Mandy was saying. Squinting, Mickey watched Ian hand her something that she immediately stuffed in her back pocket.

“Thanks,” he replied with a grateful smile Mickey could feel from the bottoms of his toes all the way to the tips of his ears.

“You ca—seco—cking get there, got it?”

This time, the smile turned into a laugh. Soft and sad, but a laugh. Supplementing what he could hear with the shapes that Ian’s lips made, Mickey deciphered, “I’ll text you once I’m settled in.”

Mandy must have said something else that Mickey couldn’t quite catch, because Gallagher’s face did that _thing_ where it looked like he was choking on something just as she threw her arms around his neck and tugged him into a hug.

It was dumb. It was _so_ fucking dumb that even a hint of jealousy erupted in Mickey’s stomach at a time like this, but it did. And a lot more than a hint, too. What he wouldn’t have given for Ian to wrap him in those freckled arms of his the way he did with Mandy, to bury his face in Mickey’s shoulder like that so that he could run a hand through his hair rather than his sister. What he wouldn’t have given to live in a world where that was even a possibility.

But he didn’t, so all he could do was watch as Mandy stood where he was dying to be and felt the weight of Gallagher leaning against her instead. All he could hope was that she’d whisper something in his ear— _anything_ to get his ass to stay.

She didn’t, and when Ian eventually pulled away with a baleful grin, Mandy shot him a mock salute and watched him waltz off towards the bus depot a few blocks over before departing herself.

Mickey’s pulse was pounding so hard that it was all he could hear. Some fucking friend Mandy turned out to be. Ian was _leaving_ —he was _going away_ , and not just on some stupid trip. That bus was going to take him to basic, and after basic, they’d send him wherever the fuck the military wanted him to go. Maybe he’d come back on leave in a neatly pressed uniform with that dumb fucking grin on his face, the one that made Mickey want to do shit he had never admitted to himself that he desired so desperately. Maybe he would return without a limb. Maybe there would be a fucking folded flag on the Gallaghers’ mantel while his corpse rotted in a box underground, if there was even enough of him left to find. Somebody had to do something. _Mickey_ had to do something.

No fucking way. _No_ fucking way.

Ian was sixteen. He had a goddamn baby face. Mickey would know—he’d traced it over and over and over again. And didn’t the army have rules against gay dudes joining up or some shit? Was that still a thing?

A fake ID? Yeah, Gallagher was going to need more than that if he wanted out of here.

Mickey didn’t need to stop him. No recruiter in their right mind would let him on that bus.

Unlike last night and earlier that morning, Mickey couldn’t quite persuade his own mind to believe it. Not even close. Inside his head was a timer, counting down to the end of two irreconcilable ideas that warred with one another until they were almost incomprehensible. That was pretty appropriate, though. Everything about this was insane, so why should his thoughts be any different?

_Tick._

Ian jaywalked across the street. Mickey stayed the course.

_Tock._

Ian ducked inside a fence beneath the sign that said it was property of the U.S. government. Mickey stopped a few buildings away and dissolved into the shadows of an alley.

_Tick._

Ian lined up with the other dudes who were sacrificing their lives for absolutely fucking nothing. Mickey’s fingers ached for a cigarette or a bottle of booze.

_Tock._

Ian straightened when some bastard in a uniform called, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.” So did Mickey.

_Tick._

Ian handed over his ID. Mickey waited for one of the two inevitable outcomes—the one that would save Gallagher or the one that would break them both.

_Tock._

Ian smirked. Mickey had his answer.

_Tick._

Ian got on the bus. Mickey covered his mouth with a quivering hand, blinked rapidly, and tried not to pace when it started with a roar.

_Tock._

The scent of diesel. The sound of acceleration.

_Tick._

A white bus disappearing down the street with the redhead that gave him a reason not to hate absolutely everything somewhere inside.

_Tock._

Mickey needed to stop him.

He didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! (Also, I'm so sorry.) 
> 
> For more on Shameless, my writing, and assorted fandom madness, I'm on [Tumblr](https://pathoftheranger.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
